Blitz
by Tooti Fruity
Summary: Across the room, the penny has finally dropped. Across the city, someone hears the cries.


Fire.

Cold, bone biting fire was ripping through him, and _bloody hell, he can't feel his legs, oh god, oh Mother Mary in Heaven-_

All he could feel was pain; horrible, mind numbing pain, deep in his chest, clawing its way out, trying to consume him.

So this is what hell is like. This is his punishment for his unapologetic sins.

Across the room, the penny has finally dropped.

Across the city, someone hears the cries.

* * *

Running, chasing, following the blasts of smoke, evading the blasts of war.

All he can do is run to reach London. In a car, in a carriage, on a horse, or on foot, there is one goal in mind. Find Angleterre.

Find Arthur.

The pain comes and goes, hitting like a kick to the stomach, and oh god, this is far worse than anything he could possibly conjure up in his worst nightmare. It's as though each bomb is hitting him directly, each sect of his body under attack. He can't even see, his vision is so spotty from the blood pounding in his temple that it deters his vision. All he can think of is France-

No.

Francis lying out cold and bloody on the stretcher, Francis shaking from the pain of Germany's constant blows, Francis gasping as he gulps air like it's his last breath, shuddering as he swallows his last like seawater.

It doesn't take long to get into England from where France is, though the last train he can catch before he has to go on foot or hitchhike is miles away from his Angleterre. Each step is only a step closer, more motivation to reach his love. He tires, stumbling in the young darkness, feeling his body attempting to give out, but no, he must keep going, he must-

* * *

-keep fighting the pain, he tells himself. The worst moments, honestly, are when England is semi lucid, where he can make out those around him, the brief moments where the gravity of his grim condition shatters him, where he remembers that France is miles away with no idea where he is.

He shakes with fear for his life.

He shakes with fear for his love.

* * *

Only a little farther, he tells himself, then you can stop. The dawn peaks on the horizon, and God, Francis hasn't slept in a real bed in months, and even the bare, wet ground was looking comfortable, but no, he must keep going, must persevere. He feels his spirits somehow both raise when he sees the outline of the city, but they plummet as he sees no lights.

The dawn peaks through the cracks in the shelter door as England notes the faint hum of the radio in the corner. With each passing moment, the lights grow stronger as he feels his whole body become saturated with emotion, because oh dear God, it's finally over, a night of misery ended-

France can feel him. He can't explain it, but he simply can. The earth is fresh from the rain, and the sky is a soft blue tint, almost mocking him with its cheeriness in the face of such macabre bleakness. He runs throughout what's left of the streets, what's left of _London_ , as he searches for his love-

From beyond the rubble, he can see a figure in the distance. More gather as people begin to emerge, and he shakes as he rushes about, begging each passerby in his broken English, _please, have you seen this man, he is my friend, no, sorry, can't say I have-_

The frustration is maddening.

* * *

Somehow, England can feel France, in the same way he can feel his people; weak, fatigued, sick with grief and battered by war, but alive and surviving all the same. Arthur rushes out of the cellar, glancing around what's left of the rubble of his stately home, before he begins stumbling out into the streets, deliriously asking someone, anyone, if they've seen Francis.

None have.

Realistically, it takes until about midday for them to find one another. It's a small girl who brings them together in the end, her recognition of Arthur's description of Francis bringing her to lead him across the courtyard to a small base of operations where the people of London gathered.

When they see one another, the world stops turning.

* * *

Francis is crying now. He rarely does so, but here he is, a man, the picture of strength and vibrancy for his people, crying openly like a small child, holding his Angleterre, his Arthur as they cling to each other for dear life.

If there were no laws, he might be foolish enough to spare a kiss.

He isn't, but he wishes he were.

"Never leave again, you damn frog," Arthur hisses, though there's no bite in his words.

"I won't," He swears.

It's not a promise they can keep, but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try.

When the second night of what history would later dub The Blitz hits, they're together.

Somewhere, the penny drops.

All is well.


End file.
